


Vulneraries and Hot Cross Buns

by thirteenblackbirds



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Edelclaude Week (Fire Emblem), F/M, and talking church politics, edelgard von blasphemer, just two house leaders shopping for their kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteenblackbirds/pseuds/thirteenblackbirds
Summary: A routine shopping duty into town for necessities holds more surprises than Claude expected when there's a last-minute substitution of his shopping partner.EdelClaude week 2020, days 3 and 4: change / adrestia & work/ almyra.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Vulneraries and Hot Cross Buns

“I thought I had shopping duty with Bernadetta today.” The Black Eagle striding down the stairs of the reception hall to where he is waiting at the gates is not Bernadetta von Varley. 

“She wasn’t feeling well so I offered to trade her for my greenhouse rotation.” Reaching him, she places one hand on her hip and lifts an imperious eyebrow. “Is that an issue?”

It’s not that Claude makes a habit out of disbelieving people (even though he does), but ‘not feeling well’ seems to be a semi-permanent condition for the most reclusive Eagle. Even Marianne ventures outside of her room on most days. But far be it for him to question Edelgard’s willingness to overlook the flimsy excuse. She could be surprisingly indulgent of her younger House mates at times.

“Of course not,” he says with a grin that he knows will vex her. He has to entertain himself somehow, and it looks like today it’ll be by metaphorically poking at the icy imperial princess, with her blade-straight posture and sculpted cheekbones. And unlike with Bernadetta, he feels no guilt whatsoever in teasing her. True to form, her wisteria-steel eyes narrow but she says nothing, merely gives a curt nod and leads the way out of the gates toward the town without bothering to check if he is following.

He follows at a sauntering pace. 

The monastery is supplied by weekly deliveries of necessities it needs in bulk, but as part of their assigned duties, the students at the Officers Academy are tasked with going into town to purchase smaller quantities of items that are not needed on a regular basis or to top up any supplies that may not last until the next scheduled delivery. Today’s list includes medical supplies for Manuela, fertilizer for the greenhouse, and flour for the kitchens – groceries are typically delivered in shipments to keep up with the needs of the full complement of students, staff, Knights and monks at Garreg Mach, but apparently the usual delivery amount had failed to take into account the combined (voracious, bottomless) appetites of Raphael, Caspar, Dimitri and, most of all, their new professor. Hence, the need for a sack of emergency flour until the next shipment arrives.

Once in town, they head first to the apothecary, greeting the apothecarist who recognizes their uniforms and immediately set about gathering vulneraries, antitoxins and gauze rolls. Claude wanders around the shelves as they wait and picks out a few herbs of his own for his … ah, experiments. (And the potential aftermath of such experiments. Always be prepared!) 

Edelgard lingers by the counter, asking questions, in quiet murmurs. She thanks the woman when she retrieves a small packet from the shelves and hands it to her in exchange for some coin she digs out of her own pockets rather than the communal expense pouch.

“For Bernadetta,” she says, when she catches him looking. 

Ah. Perhaps she really is feeling ill today. He feels a minor pang of remorse for his earlier skepticism. 

As they make their way around the markets, Edelgard stops in at various merchants, picking up a bundle of high-quality bowstring for Petra, leather oil for Caspar and Ferdinand, velvet hair ribbons for Linhardt and Dorothea (plain black for him, a rich burgundy for her). Little items that she must notice them needing because Claude strongly doubts that they would think to ask Edelgard to bring such trinkets back for them.

He’d thought she would be more ruthlessly efficient, but he is more than happy to take a scenic route, collecting his own selection of gifts: baby animal-shaped sweets to tuck into Lysithea’s books (and watch as she tries to make up her mind between annoyance at the presumption and delight at the correctness of the presumption), bright semi-precious beads for Hilda, jerky for Raphael and Leonie, a pot of iridescent violet for Ignatz’s new painting of Garreg Mach at night that the other Deer thinks he’s being successful at hiding… 

Watching her carefully tuck away her various purchases, he is surprised by the revelation of the amount of care she must take in observing the needs of her House mates.

As though sensing his thoughts, she glances at him sharply from where she is speaking to the haberdasher about a set of white cotton gloves that can only be for Hubert. He gives her his best guileless smile back, the one he’s practiced in the mirror. Somehow, she fails to be mollified but when the merchant speaks, she turns her attention back to the gloves. 

Another surprise is how friendly Edelgard is with the various shopkeepers, asking after their families and carrying on conversations that clearly span interactions. They welcome her with smiles and a ‘Lady Edelgard’, delivered with cheer rather than stiff formality. And she, in turn, though not without awkwardness, exudes a gentle warmth, smiling far more often than he has seen her do at the monastery. She is almost a different person, he thinks, as he watches her compliment the shy son of the gardening supplies merchant on his sprouting tomato plant and indulge Anna’s flagrant fleecing of her purchase of a tin of bergamot tea. He makes a note of the tea choice for future reference.

Fertilizer obtained, he and Edelgard make their way through the thinning late afternoon crowd to the miller. As they pass by a simple stall overflowing with what look like a random assortment of trinkets, an intricately carved wooden wyvern, no larger than the palm of his hand, catches his attention. He immediately recognizes the craftsmanship as traditional Almyran.

“You have a good eye,” the merchant says, dressed in impeccable Fodlan fashion, but Claude hears the faintest inflections of an Almyran accent in his voice. “That is a masterpiece of wood carving.”

“A wyvern?” Lost in a sudden memory of his father presenting him with a similar carving at the age of six (though with far superior artistry), Claude startles slightly at Edelgard’s voice by his side. She’s peering at the carving curiously. “The technique is interesting.”

“I’m thinking of getting it for Cyril,” he says, the first excuse he can think of. And it’s too much, he realizes instantly, too defensive – the key to being a good liar is to never over-explain or answer a question before it is asked. Silence can be the most effective lie.

But Edelgard betrays no hint of suspicion and only remarks, “He doesn’t seem to miss his homeland overly much.” So she does suspect the provenance of the piece after all.

The merchant seems to realize this as well and quickly says, “My lord and lady, I assure you—”

“Are these stolen goods?”

“… I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“Are these goods stolen.” The question mark drops away the second time she says the words.

“N-no, my lady. My wares are all fairly obtained.”

“Then I have no interest in their origins.” She addresses Claude again. “I’m not sure Cyril will necessarily appreciate the gesture, however well-intentioned it might be.”

She’s right, Claude knows. And yet… he can’t help but feel that the other boy should have something of his birthplace to remember it by. It is jarring for him how Cyril views his heritage with such cynicism and Rhea with such all-encompassing devotion. In Cyril’s eyes, the archbishop can do no wrong at all, but Claude has his doubts. 

If Rhea truly cared about Cyril, why does she not permit him to join the classes? Or, at a minimum, arrange for him to learn to read? He’s seen Cyril waiting as unobtrusively as possible, pretending to weed or sweep the corridor, for Lysithea after their classes so that she can help him decipher the latest errand a Knight has asked him to run. And he is always so protective of his work and assignments, insisting that he alone must complete the tasks, as though he’s afraid accepting any help might cause a revocation of his welcome at the monastery. Claude does not think Rhea is directly responsible for that fear, but he suspects she has not done much to prevent the Knights and monastery staff from making such suggestions. Suffice to say that the whole situation with the younger Almyran boy makes Claude deeply uneasy and does not help him feel very charitable towards Rhea or the Church. (Even if he admits that the boy has good reasons to view the powers that be in Almyra with resentment and distrust.)

Claude realizes he’s been quiet for too long when Edelgard says, “Are you not getting it after all?” 

“No, you’re probably right and he’d just scowl at me before dumping it.”

For some reason, she doesn’t look very happy with that response. “I hadn’t pegged you as a man who would allow the views of others to discourage him from his choices.”

He raises both eyebrows at her, but she merely stares back, something like a challenge in her stance. Which is funny, given that he has done nothing to provoke her this time. Feeling oddly rebuked, he picks up the sculpture to examine it. The artistry is not quite as fine as the one that sits at the bottom of his trunk, buried under clothes and books, but it is unmistakably Almyran. If Cyril wants to throw it away, that’s his choice, he supposes.

“This is Almyran.” He holds the carving out to the merchant, who has been politely pretending not to listen to their conversation and silently indicates he’s interested in going through with the purchase after all. 

“Hmm.” Her hum is non-committal. “There’s no official trade with Almyra but I have heard that some of their goods make it across the Throat on occasion. It is well-crafted.”

Is she baiting him? Fine, he’ll bite, this one time. “Praise. Does your imperial highness not believe Almyra is a land of beasts incapable of art?” He keeps his tone deliberately casual when the question is anything but.

She leaves off eyeing an ornamental curved dagger to glance at him, something like anger in her eyes, but when she responds, her voice is just as bland as his. “What a strange question. I expect that Almyra is populated by humans, just like us.”

Just like them? That is not sanctioned Church doctrine. He’s long suspected that the imperial princess may not be the strictest believer, has caught the thinly veiled distaste on her face during mandated choir sessions. And the few times he has bothered to show up at the designated prayer hours for the sake of maintaining appearances, he has never once seen even her shadow.

“Don’t tell me _you_ believe in all that nonsense about all people outside of Fodlan being little better than beasts, depraved in their deprivation of the Goddess’s light and mercy?” Her expression of exasperation is almost comical, eyebrows drawn together, a disdainful light in her eyes, lips downturned at the edges. The parcels she’s carrying prevent her from crossing her arms or placing her hands on her hips, but he imagines that she strongly wishes to do so and has to bite down his smile, despite himself and the topic at hand. For all the secrets she’s carrying, she can be disarmingly easy to read sometimes. 

“Do you not?”

The edges of her lips tug down further. “No,” she says emphatically. “And I didn’t expect that someone as int—” she stops before completing that thought and switches tracks “— someone who reads as much as you do, and asks as many questions that you are well aware Seteth will not answer, would either.”

“Were you about to call me smart, princess?” He grins delightedly, back on solid footing.

Rather than dignifying that with a response, she turns away to march decisively in the direction of the bakery that also serves as the miller’s shopfront, but not fast enough that he does not catch the roll of her eyes or the dusting of rose across her cheeks. Still grinning, he skips to catch up.

“You can tell me I’m smart, Edelgard, I promise not to let it go to my head.”

She refuses to look at him and mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “Your head is bloated enough as it is.”

The miller’s young daughter manning the shopfront darts an appraising, amused look between the two of them. Claude catches her eye and winks over the top of Edelgard’s head where it is ducked in an inspection of the freshly baked pastries. The young woman blushes prettily and giggles, which catches Edelgard’s attention and she shoots him a suspicious look over her shoulder before pointing out a selection of hot cross buns and handing over payment. He’s beginning to feel hurt at the way she continues to be entirely unmoved by his innocent-as-a-newborn-babe smile. 

By the time they are finally ready to head back, the sack of flour and Edelgard’s wrapped buns in hand, the sun is just starting to dip in the sky.

On their way back to the monastery, walking quietly side by side, their arms laden with goods and their pockets considerably lighter, he says, “I don’t believe it.”

For a long minute, he wonders, from the way she keeps her eyes focused straight ahead, if Edelgard is going to pretend she doesn’t know which conversation he’s picking back up. Then she tilts her head at him, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Good.”

With the orange sun at their backs, her pale hair is lit almost golden. Her face is partially in shadow as they round the corner and Garreg Mach’s imposing gates loom before them. Ever so slightly, her pace slows, delaying their return to within the monastery’s walls. 

“Because it’s all nonsense.” It’s spoken so softly that he’s not sure if she meant to say it out loud or for him to hear it. There’s quality of a banked fire in it though, where, while the flames may no longer be visible, the embers burn just as hot, prepared to roar back at any minute.

This is delicate territory now. The moment is heavy with implications, yet somehow fragile at the same time. Something is being offered. He knows that if he makes a joke now, the minute will break, and he has the feeling he will never have another chance at this conversation again. 

Fighting his instinct to deflect, he pauses, pretending to need to adjust the packages in his arms, and she halts with him, looking at expectantly. They are close enough to the gates that he can make out which guards are on duty today. “That is dangerously close to heresy, princess.” He keeps his voice low, serious.

“We’re not yet on Church grounds.” Still that expectant look. She’s waiting.

He lets out slow breath, picking his parcels back up again. He considers his next words very carefully, holding her gaze. “I’ll admit, it is hard to take nothing but the Church’s word for” — _anything_ really, but he settles for — “the bestial nature of everyone outside the borders of this country.”

“The Church is too used to having its word blindly accepted.”

“Is that not the definition of faith?”

“Their definition, perhaps. But faith, once it assumes the mantle of power, must also reckon with accountability. Anything else is simply manipulating the ideal to exert unfettered control.”

 _Danger_ , his preservation instincts warn. “I never took you for such a risk taker, princess. Luckily, my views on that are not strictly orthodox either.”

“A calculated risk taker,” she corrects. And she seems to deem the conversation over as she shifts her weight and continues back toward the gates at a brisk pace. "We're going to be late for dinner." She does not look back to see if he is following. 

Claude shakes his head, half-bemused, half-disbelieving, and jogs to catch up. They walk through the front gates shoulder to shoulder. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lol, so I interpreted the prompts of change and work very literally, and then Almyra snuck in halfway through as a bonus. Poor Cyril. He needs more role models.


End file.
